


red velvet, if you please

by CS_WhiteWolf



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-01
Updated: 2006-12-01
Packaged: 2018-04-28 06:31:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5081266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CS_WhiteWolf/pseuds/CS_WhiteWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the Tri-Wizard tournament is begun, two men make a deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	red velvet, if you please

**Author's Note:**

> Written December 2006. The original prompt I was working with asked for: Karkarof seducing each of the TriWizard champions whilst Snape watches. I never got as far as the seducing but I did like what I started with.

The liquid runs into his goblet smoothly, all red hued and velvety as it sloshes gently against silver sides; a clink sounding as glass and goblet connect for a moment only, a lingering bead of wine caught before it can spill to the pressed linen of the tablecloth. Igor Karkaroff’s eyes are deep-narrowed suspicion, never leaving the dark amusement of Severus Snape’s sardonic glare as he pours and passes Snape his drink, watching as it is accepted with a barely perceptible nod and a subtle challenge in the gauntlet-throwing smirk that twists the corner of the Potions Master’s mouth, daring Karkaroff to partake of the heady beverage before he will so much as sniff at his own. 

It is a cold glint of tedious acquiescence that flashes across Karkaroff’s face at the challenge, a toothy smile that is not so much a smile as the baring of yellowed teeth tugs at his mouth and forces him to sit and sip and drink deeply of the goblet before him, feeling the trickle of cool liquid seeping from the side of his mouth to run down his weak chin and into his white-haired goatee. 

He sees the unamused and unimpressed look of distaste that Snape bestows upon him at his discourteous show of manners before the Potions Master raises his own goblet in silent salutation, allowing the rich spice of wine to pass by his thin lips for a moment only before he lowers his goblet as Karkaroff does- the back of a thin hand wiping across his chin, fingers twirling at the curl at the end of his beard as they sit in softly simmering silence for a time; each lost in thought but trapped in the moment, of memories of the then and the now, of the richly decorated quarters before them to the barely survivable conditions of old safe-houses gone by. 

“It has been a long time, my friend,” Karkaroff’s words are quietly spoken, a hitching-rush of breath forming words almost too silent to hear as he dares to break the silence between them with speech. “I have not enjoyed the pleasure of your company for some years now.” His eyes are only slightly less cold than they are usually wont to be but no less shrewd and calculating as he takes in Snape’s every move.

“It has,” Snape agrees, a casual lift of a careless shoulder, all elegance-poised as he sits reclined upon the hard-backed chair facing the Durmstrang Headmaster; knees almost unconsciously brushing up against Karkaroff’s crimson-coloured robes as he stretches out his legs- a play at placidity- as he crosses them at pale ankles; the slip-up of dark fabric to reveal the delicate slide of a tauntingly hairless calf. 

Snape’s lips are curled into a smouldering smirk of intention as Karkaroff’s eyes linger a moment longer on the pale expanse of flesh bared to him; a sight that should not be so provocative to his senses is one that undoubtedly catches his full attention for an instant too long before he can pull his eyes away and stop them straying back down- an itch in his fingers as they long to stroke the curve of ankle and heel and arch of the delicately shaped foot he remembers from better days between them. 

It is in the meeting of his eyes to the smoky depths of Snape’s gaze that has the narrowing of suspicion return to him, a twinge of unease as Snape toasts him once more in mockery and drinks deep of his red, red wine, his lips smirking around the rim, staining a deep lush red un-erased by the prompt flickering of his tongue as he laps at any lingering liquid gracing his mouth. Karkaroff’s eyes are drawn to this sight too, the clenching squirm of unease claiming him at this subtle game Snape is playing with him. Snape whose attention is seemingly occupied by the lushly decorated splendour about him; all dark woods and deep cerise reds- but Karkaroff knows to think otherwise, feeling the prickle of Snape’s attention on him even before the man turns his head to look at him.

“You have done well for yourself, Igor,” Snape deigns to comment, finally, “…considering.” The quiet between them dissolves in little fizzles of suppressed emotion- the tang of frustrated anger heavy in the air around them as the necessary _pleasantries_ are observed between them in twisted acknowledgement. 

Karkaroff bristles, teeth clenching as he grips the arm of his chair in white-knuckled anger. _Considering?_ He longs to ask but knows the answer, dares not bring up the past for the horrors it may bring to the present but still Snape answers him, all silent condemnation without speaking so much as a damning word he indicts: _Considering you tried to sell us out, Igor. Tried to sell me out_. The taste that creeps over his tongue is steeped in bitterness, a retching ash coating the back of his throat as Snape’s dark eyes watch him- _did you really think you could pay me back so easily?_ \- the obsidian blacks glinting with something far deeper than simple accusation.

It is with desperate hunger, a frantic clutching at last straws that he tries without words to lay the blame upon Snape in turn- _you sold me out too. You sold us all out while you snaked your way under Dumbledore’s protection. You damned us all. (You damned me!)_.

Snape grins at him, all crooked darkness and malicious intent. There is much to be resolved between them; tensions and emotions running high as they always have. It is to be expected after fourteen years apart. 

Fourteen long years that have been spent carving out little hide-holes of respectability for their trespasses against the wizarding world. Trespasses each would repeat again, as men living in sin are known to do- (the seduction to darkness a saccharine taste and heady rush no earthly man nor material could ever hope to match)- should the moment come and they not be hidden away behind their masquerade of masks, too cowardly to reach for what is in their grasp to take- (too comfortable in the stolen protections they have gained).

All this and more is said in the silence between them, as Karkaroff too-casually brushes the left-sleeve of his robe down,- a speck of lint? a crease of silken red material?- his fingers moving to tap a repetitive beat against the flute he is overly careful not to grip too tightly. Snape sees the actions, understands the motion as he tightens his jaw and tenses his frame, an expectation evolving between them in jerky movements and half-breathed, unformed words. 

Snape’s glare forms and deepens at the continued _drum-drum-drumming_ of fingers to liquid-filled metal, receiving a toothy grin from Karkaroff in response as the Durmstrang Head catches his annoyance. The humour does not reach the frozen winter of his eyes; those swirling pools of cold mistrust and menace move to eye the graceful grip in which Snape holds his own goblet- the careful cradling of stem against palm as thumb and forefingers clasp lightly at the cup, the curving bend of his thumb sliding up the arced metal and moving in a practiced rub from side-to-side, catching the attention he does not mean to catch.

Karkaroff’s fingers stop their annoying play at nervousness, (or perhaps a habit too deep-rooted to be so easily controlled), all but slamming his wine to the table that sits to the side of them, their elbows easily rested upon its crimson covered surface. 

Their eyes are locked now, a thrum vibrating in the air around them as Snape sits forward, an ugly sneer upon his face as he glowers deeply at the man before him, mouth opening to pass comment on some matter or other but snapping shut in teeth-grinding fury as Karkaroff’s hand shoots out to grab at his wrist, the jolt causing liquid red to spill over the sides of his tightly gripped goblet; wine running in seeping tendrils of dilute colour to stain his flesh and soak his sleeve as strong fingers twist his whitened flesh to smarting red, using the hold to jerk him forward, pulling him to the edge of his seat.

In retaliation, Snape snakes his free hand out in a swift jab to fist up a handful of Karkaroff’s collar, the feel of expensive material caressing the palm of his hand as he leans in, pulling Karkaroff to meet him halfway as they glare, as they stare in built-up hate and regret and anger and want and their mouths are parted, their teeth are bared, they dare dance their faces closer in a parody of the seducing prelude to a kiss (though neither has the want nor desire to see their mouth sullied against the other’s), then- hesitation. 

It is Karkaroff’s undoing; for one sight at the uncertainty lighting his gaze has Snape lurching to his feet, wrist twisting easily free from slacking fingers to grab at Karkaroff’s neck, a violent squeeze and tug as the man is pulled to his feet and aggressively, bodily, turned and shoved up against the table; all sodden linen, the invisibly-stained marks of spilt liquor, a silent ‘ _oof_ ’ of expelled air as Snape’s hands move to the back of his head- fingers sliding through loosely-tumbling snow-white hair, the feel of callous-rough finger pads sending pleasing tingles shooting through his head until the clench of fingers rip at the strands and has him hissing, has him growling as another hand is placed upon his back, forcing him down- to bend over; all undignified and unwilling, offering himself decadently as shaken legs are kicked apart.

Breath- all hot searing and sickly sticks to the skin of his ear, the sharp nip to the lobe and trailing bites to the curve have him writhing vehemently, struggling to free himself from the weight atop his back and the hands now bunched in the fabric at his waist- tugging, pulling, lifting his robes inch by inch to bare his paled and primed legs, thighs, the still firmed curves of the buttocks knowing hands are touching and moulding and he is groaning even as he is trying to wriggle his way free; one of his hands trapped between himself and the table, the other reaching- clawing across the damp velvet tablecloth as if his salvation from this situation is within his reach.

It is foolish of Karkaroff to think that he should be able to free himself so easily from Snape’s determined hold; free-roaming hands that touch and trace as they please, sending sparks and tingles running through Karkaroff’s aged-body, the sudden and sharp shock of pain that causes the older man’s eyes to bulge- a wrenching cry of outrage from gasping lips as Snape so callously slaps at his arse with a sinister chuckle at his ear. The acidic taste of what is to come makes it hard for Karkaroff to swallow past the growing lump of fear and unease that sits built up in his throat, the choking bile as Snape laps an almost loving trail of uncanvassed spittle from flinching neck to lobe, his voice both craved and unwanted as he speaks in that cultured, lust-roughened tone that has Karkaroff’s toes curling involuntarily within his boots.

“Do you remember this, Igor?” Snape speaks into his ear, prevailing at the indignation thrumming through the Durmstrang Head’s tensed form, “Do you remember?” His hands hold and massage the firm flesh of Karkaroff’s arse, the hard length of his fabric-confined cock rubbing shamelessly between pulled-apart buttocks.

“Remember?” The word is a scoffing, a sneer at the memories of the past. “Yes I remember, Severus,” Karkaroff’s snaps, swearing into the tension-filled air around them as Snape presses the tip of one long finger into the pucker of his arse, pushing past the ring of clenching muscles and shoving in up to the knuckle. Karkaroff growls, stilling and pressing his face into his arm, drawing deep panting breaths as Snape mercilessly pushes his finger deeper- in and out; short, sharp jabs- a quick curl, the brush against pulsing nerves that elicits a strangled moan from the man beneath him.

He does not need to see the shining blacks of Snape’s eyes to know that there is sadistic amusement dancing within those darkened depths as his finger moves within him like a writhing serpent, causing his teeth to clench and his eyes to close as he tries to speak with a middling amount of dignity shaping his voice.

“I remember this, Snape.” He reaffirms, “I remember this like the first time you forced yourself upon me.” 

“Forced?” It is said mildly, thoughtfully as Snape jams his not-so-thoughtful finger into Karkaroff’s arse once more, “Forced is such a polite way to phrase it, Igor,” Snape speaks, leaning in to bite sharply at his ear; the touching taste of a coppery tang to his tongue tells him he’s broken the skin. 

“Why not say what you mean, Igor, and leave your pretty words to worthier ears?” Snape snaps; an anger slinking its way through his body as he forces another finger into Karkaroff’s dry hole, the scraping friction is arousing to Severus as he feels the quivering of stretching muscles, the clamping awareness of a body trying to both expel him and draw him deeper within. 

It is with gritted teeth that Karkaroff tries to swallow back his explicit cry-turned-moan as Snape manipulates his body with those knowing digits, causing him to almost unwillingly push back into impaling fingers, to feel the burn of chafing resistance as he is emptily filled. 

“What would you have me say, Severus?” Karkaroff asks, “What words would please you the most to have me say?” There is sweat beading his top lip, he can taste it through the coarse-juts of hair framing his mouth into that well-groomed goatee of his. It is not an unpleasant taste- it helps to mask the shame and ignominy he feels in this moment- tries not to acknowledge the ache in his loins nor the rising of his blood-filled cock from manipulated desire.

Snape does not speak a reply. He has no need to when every violent thrust of his fingers encourages Karkaroff to scream; in pain or pleasure he cares not, only wishing to hear the animalistic grunt and cry of pure _feeling_ , to know that it is because of him that Karkaroff is reduced to the writhing mass of (un)willingness beneath him. 

“Why do you do this to me?” The words are out before he thinks to hold them back, his teeth biting at his lips till they tear and bleed and he is silent and tensed, hips flexing with involuntary thrusts- the trickle of beaded sweat down his spine- as Snape’s fingers slow, a tight choking-chuckle groaned into his ear; bruise-tight fingers gripping at his hip as Snape leans over him, pant-panting at his ear with little puffs of damning damnation as he hisses in anguish-tinted tones:

“Because you’ve never told me to stop, Igor.” 

A lone and soundless gasp is the only acknowledgement Karkaroff is allowed of the words that Snape has just spoken- the addition of a third and final finger stretching him with a brutality akin to having one's body split apart; with pleasure-like masochism he shouts a curse, smooth Russian hoarse and stilted as Snape bites a mark to the back of his neck.

“I will have you one day, Severus!” He vows into the charged air, eyes swimming with denied moisture; his answer is a laugh all deep and sultry, like the darkest of chocolate that doesn’t melt in the mouth so much as it sticks and chokes on the way down. 

“Will you, Igor?” Snape asks smoothly, “Do you want me that badly? Come, I shall make a wager with you,” He purrs his words out in seductive malevolence, “Seduce all the Triwizard champions, and I will let you have me.”

“What?” It is a gasping pant, face and body feeling feverishly hot, his head all but spinning dancing lights of approaching completion.

“Seduce all the Triwizard champions- whoever they may be,” Snape repeats, his tone calm and seemingly unaffected by the happenings between them. “And I will let you put that long-,” He gave a vicious tweak of his fingers, “thick, cock,” His voice lowering to a throaty husk as he bent over Karkaroff’s back to speak into his ear, “all the way up my tight little arse, because you know-,” he bit through the lobe of the Durmstrang Head’s ear, “no one has ever had the chance.”

He feels the press of Snape’s clothed arousal undulating against the curve of his arse, his breath as he speaks a tingle of sensation against the wetness now coating at his ear: “I know you, Igor. I know you want to be the one to tear me open, to split me wide and come deep inside me. Would you like that, Igor? Would you like to possess me- till my throat is raw and bleeding and I’m screaming; only for you, Igor?” Snape laughs once more, and Karkaroff can hear the exhilaration in his words, fancies that he can feel the urging thump of Snape’s heart at giving him even the remotest of chances to sully his untouched body.

“Do not deny that you want it, Igor… do not deny me.” And Karkaroff cannot, not when he is hard and aching, leaking his seed into the red of his waist-bunched robes, his arse burning with pleasure-pain and Snape’s fingers twisting and turning like seething snakes, touching and teasing; a brushing taunt across the ache of his prostate as he- _shamefully_ \- shamelessly flexes his hips, fucking those fingers as he would ride a cock; copper coating his mouth from the bite he bestows his tongue, forcing his groans and pleas to slip no further out his mouth than in the garbled little pants and gasps he allows himself as he is milked of his seed by these fingers alone. 

His hips jerking until he has spilled himself completely, Karkaroff slumps his face into the press of his arm, wincing as Snape wrenches his fingers out of him with nary a thought to his comfort, the rustling of his robes giving paid to the notion that the Potions Master is wiping those damning digits clean on Karkaroff’s own robes- it is almost an insult, and would be if Karkaroff could gather his wits enough to confront it as being so. It is all he can do however to push himself upright as he feels the barest brush of fabric across his smarting arse as Snape moves away- the sheer intensity of his gaze felt even though he faces him not, his cheeks aflame as he forces himself to turn around; legs shaky and unstable under his weight with the effort to stand, hands swift to pull his robes down- unable to hide the dampness that has seepingly-stained through the front. 

“What are your terms?” Karkaroff asks hoarsely, wincing at the movement of swelling tongue and purpling lip; eyes intent on Snape and every movement he dares makes, seeing the satisfaction twisting his features even though Karkaroff knows the Hogwarts Professor has not yet spilled his own seed- basking for the moment in his humiliation and domination of Karkaroff; just as he always has.

The grin he is given in response is almost illicit- wide and leering, the show of crooked teeth, yellowing and malevolent in the flickering of the candlelit room; the play of light across his sallow face makes him appear waxen and deathlike, reminiscent of the skull that unites them- all skeletal and foul as it sits in dormant slumber tattooed upon their arms for the moment, and for the moment only- a deep rooted itch that cannot be scratched eating away at the skin beneath the Dark Mark- _awakening_ ; whispers on the wind.

“I have only one stipulation, Igor.” Words are finally spoken, the smooth forming of lips to words moving to erase the moment of stirring evil as swiftly as it was allowed to become indulged upon. “I ask only that you manage to seduce all of the champions, and that I am permitted to watch- simply to validate you understand?”

“Of course,” There is no other response to be given to such a request, he knows, and so can only agree with this one demand- if only to have the proof of Snape’s own eyes to validate his claims and take him one step closer to claiming that body beneath his own.

“What if I should fail, Severus?” He sees the approval in obsidian eyes at his foresight to ask, watches the flick of Snape’s tongue to wet at his lips in a reptilian manner that is both repulsive and enrapturing to him.

“Then I shall do to you as you would me, Igor. And then, I never want to set eyes on you again.” 

There is something far deeper to Snape’s words than what he is privy to hearing, some hidden demand that he knows will pay him back for his treacheries should he not succeed in this impromptu wager that Karkaroff knows has been long thought of and not as spontaneous as it would appear to be.

With a stiff-necked jerk he nods his head in concurrence; let this be the start of it.

\- - -

_fin_


End file.
